


One Winter Night

by OhNoMyBreadsticks



Series: Side Stories: Of Gods and their Humans [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Banter, Brief Mention of Blood, Brief mention of animal death, Elder God, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Smut, Not Beta Read, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 11:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21337603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoMyBreadsticks/pseuds/OhNoMyBreadsticks
Summary: The chill of winter sweeps across the prairie, and Allen falls ill. Luckily, it's nothing that a stubborn god can't fix with some warm food and blankets.(Can be read as a stand-alone)
Relationships: Captain Allen/CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Series: Side Stories: Of Gods and their Humans [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1325048
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	One Winter Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cato_universe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cato_universe/gifts).

> A repost from my tumblr that I wrote for Cato because they're lovely and deserve only the best fluff <3
> 
> If you're new to my little AU, Connor60 in this fic just goes by Connor, and he also happens to be a god who turns into a fox. Will my gremlin hands ever be stopped? Unlikely!
> 
> Extra clarity note: this fic is set in the 1800s, several hundred years prior to the main storyline! Timeline can be found [here](https://ohnomybreadsticks.tumblr.com/be9timeline)!

Winter on the prairie brings with it a bleak expanse of gray and white, the sky and the ground blending together under the weak light of the sun. At night the moon reveals herself from behind drab clouds, and then snow truly shines, crystals turning into diamonds set against a sable field. The wind never sleeps here, and winter only adds to the sting as it rushes across open fields and rolling hills. The snow is packed into drifts, fantastical shapes and swirls jutting up and breaking the monotony of the once-flat landscape.

Under Connor’s paws, the snow squeaks softly, not unlike the fieldmouse he so recently devoured. He licks his jaw, the tang of blood and icy air stinging his tongue together. Sometimes, there is nothing that can replace the taste of a life taken by his own jaws. The food that humans made is  _ appealing _ , there is no doubt of that. There are many things humans make which are delicious, Connor thinks with a snicker. The snicker turns into a snort as freezing air assaults his snout. The cold cannot harm him, but it certainly isn’t pleasant. He sets his head down against the howl of the wind and begins to trot in a familiar direction.

The frozen metal of the door handle burns at his skin as Connor stands and pushes the door open, but Allen never truly locks his home. Not to him. Inside, the cabin is warm and filled with familiar scents. Connor takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the potent mixture, and feels the power sink into his veins. The smell of drying wolfsbane mixes with smoke and the spices of yesterday’s meal. It’s enough to have him licking his lips again, remembering suddenly to wipe the drying blood from his mouth. Otherwise he’ll hear…

“Clean yourself up, no mess in the house.” Allen’s voice is firm and authoritative as always, but has an odd catch to it. Connor turns his head to observe the man where he sits at his little writing desk. He’s bundled up more than usual, as if he were cold, but as Connor approaches he can see the telltale gleam of sweat along his brow and down his neck. He leans down and sniffs Allen, which earns him a gentle swat on the hip, but it’s worth it. “You’re ill.” Connor accuses with a raised eyebrow. Now that he’s this close, it’s obvious, physical weakness like a tangible force around the human’s body.

“Guess the cold caught up with me.” Allen admits easily, coughing into his hand as if the effort of speaking was too much for his throat. Connor has always found it fascinating that he would be so open about his weaknesses. Too often, he bares his metaphorical throat to the god he has allowed inside his house. Sometimes, he simply bares his actual throat, allowing Connor to suck and nip at the sensitive skin there. Connor isn’t sure what he enjoys more about that - the way Allen looks later, or the feeling that at any moment, he could bite down and pierce the vital veins that keep the other man alive. 

“Why are you not resting?” Connor asks, one ear cocking curiously as he looks down at the papers Allen has clearly been working on, and then over at the half finished meal preparation on the counter. It’s late, but he can’t smell any lingering scents of food that has been recently eaten. “Who’s going to finish dinner if I lay down?” Allen asks as a rebuttal, still cool and calm despite the persistent rasp in his throat. 

“Not you.” Connor retorts with a snort, “Since clearly you started and never finished.”

Allen is silent, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly in defeat. Eventually he admits “Got too dizzy to hold the knife properly. Had to sit down here.” Connor muses yet again on the frailty of the human body. Well, he supposes all living creatures are frail in the face of illness. He has watched the mightiest stag and the smallest of saplings wither and fall, all with the same curiosity that paints his face now. Allen is not too proud to ask for help, per se, but Connor knows that for him, there has never been anyone to ask for help  _ from _ . He huffs in annoyance, and makes his decision.

“Up you get. Into bed.” Connor orders, grasping Allen under the armpits and bodily removing him from the chair. “Just for tonight I will be accepting instructions, so that we can both eat whatever tasty meat you were about to fry up.” Connor announces, heading to the kitchen as Allen shuffles to the bed. He seems more stunned than anything, neither of them used to doing what the other says. But to both of their surprise, Allen sinks down into bed and pulls the blankets up, making himself comfortable so that he can watch Connor in the kitchen.

Connor has no sleeves to roll up, since he still hasn’t bothered to clothe himself (he rarely does, when he is here with Allen), but he stands to attention by the countertop in a way that signals he is ready to listen. Both of his ears flick towards Allen, knowing he’ll need to listen carefully because of how terrible the human’s voice already sounds. Case in point: Allen opens his mouth to say something, and immediately lets out a croak instead, which quickly devolves into a coughing fit. Connor can’t help but laugh at that, and he’s still chuckling as he approaches the bed with a glass of water.

“You just produced an impressive bullfrog mating call.” He informs Allen, who simply rolls his eyes as he sips at the water and tries to clear his throat. But Connor catches a glimpse of how his lips curl up around the edge of the glass as if in the hint of a smile. With his throat soothed at least a little, Allen is able to finally instruct Connor in how to finish the preparation for dinner. It’s somewhat humiliating, to allow himself to be ordered around, but the smell of frying meat and potatoes blending with the aromatics of rosemary and thyme quickly overpower that concern. 

In fact, there is an odd feeling of warmth that spreads through Connor’s chest as he brings the two plates of food over to the bed and settles in to eat with Allen. He ponders the cause of it as he lazily feeds the other man the occasional choice piece off of his own plate. His stomach is still full from the earlier meal of fieldmouse, after all. Silence settles around them, the way it does out in the empty fields. A silence full of small sounds - the clink of a fork on a tin plate, the crackle of the fire in its hearth, the slow rattle of Allen’s breath in his chest. 

A pattern of breathing that is slowing as Allen’s eyes begin to slip closed. Luckily, Connor has lightning fast reflexes, and catches the plate before it falls from his hands. He chuckles as he watches Allen’s head bob downward. It seems sleep has finally caught up with him. Just as well, as he has business to attend to. Connor stands and takes the plates back to the kitchen, licking the last of the tasty juices and fat up off the edges. There’s no one to scold him, after all. The fire is tended to, the door is inspected for a proper latch, and Allen is shifted down to comfortably lay down on his pillows, before a small shape jumps up and settles itself on top of the covers. 

Connor carefully grooms his paws and tail, keeping a watchful eye on Allen lying next to him as he does. There is no sense in sleeping on top of him like usual, given how warm he is from the fever. But Connor doesn’t find the idea of sleeping anywhere else appealing. After all, this is just as much his bed as it is anyone else’s. And gods can’t catch colds. So he’ll stay, and watch the way Allen’s chest rises and falls slowly through the night, just to be sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Cut to footage of me holding my 'fight me dabbid cabbage' sign
> 
> Thank you for reading! Any and all comments or kudos are loved and cherished <3 If you'd like to see more of my drabbles or stop by for a chat you can find me over on [tumblr](https://ohnomybreadsticks.tumblr.com/)! :)


End file.
